


Unforgivable

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky does something unforgivable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgivable

Written: 2001

First published in "Compadres 22: (2003)

Fan-Q Award Winner

There were many reasons but no excuses.

One of the reasons was the single slip of paper on the table before Dave Starsky.  It blurred sometimes, more from emotion than alcohol, but he could still read it, too well.  Even if it had been crumpled tightly in his hand more than once already, the ink of the teletype smeared with his sweat and the condensation of the beer bottles lined up beside it.  Even illegible, he'd still remember the words that spelled out the charges against one Nicholas Marvin Starsky.  He'd used Hutch's name to request the information from the NYPD, too ashamed of his own, of his brother, to claim the connection.  His little brother had a record.

His ma was another reason, and the tears that choked her voice when she'd called to tell him.  Nicky had been her baby, her main support.  Even if Starsky was the one she called to complain to and lean on and ask from, it was Nicky who'd put the shine in her eyes.  Parents shouldn't have favorites, but it had balanced out when they were little, Nicky ma's boy and big brother Davey his pop's shadow.  But then Michael Starsky had been killed, shot down before his eldest son's eyes, and nothing had seemed quite fair again.  Not until the Academy.  Not until Hutch.

There was just no excuse, no matter how many reasons he came up with.

The trouble with drinking in a cop bar was that you had no secrets.  Sitting in a back booth, that damned piece of paper clenched in his hand and glaring at everyone who dared look at him, Starsky should have guessed it would only be a matter of time before someone called his partner.  And sure enough, Hutch had come strolling in only an hour or so into Starsky's bender, trying to look nonchalant as his eyes picked out the brunet and he made his way to Starsky's booth.

"Hey, Starsk.  What's up?"

Those blue eyes, as clear as he'd ever seen them.  Even in the Academy they'd held a trace of uncertainty, as if Hutch weren't sure whether he was running to the LAPD or running away from something.  He'd adapted, but he'd never grown comfortable, even as he'd become a darned fine cop.  They'd weathered so much together, Hutch never letting him down, not when it counted, not even when his doubts seemed more than he could carry.  And then Starsky had gotten shot, died and come back to life, and everything had changed: the way they worked, the risks they took, their comfort level with each other.  It had been like finding out what everything was supposed to really be like, and a calm had settled deep into Hutch's eyes in a way that still made Starsky marvel.  And grateful.

The same blue eyes that now watched him with vivid concern.  Hutch was ready to hear whatever Starsky was ready to say, to share it, to work through it together.  Together – Starsky didn't even remember anymore what the allure had been of muddling through things alone.

But this . . . this . . . There were always some walls left, weren't there?

He'd shaken his head at Hutch's query, not wanting the sympathy or the help.  This load, this failure had been his alone to bear.  His and the 63-year-old woman's back in  Brooklyn who'd given him an earful earlier that evening about his responsibilities to his family.  She'd sent Nicky out there for a visit over a year before in expectation that Starsky would straighten him out.  And, of course, it was his fault the guidance hadn't taken.

Reasons.  Not excuses.

"Starsk?"  Hutch's hand dropped onto his as he moved to lift the bottle to his lips again.  "Talk to me.  What's wrong?"

"My life."

A blond eyebrow had arched at that.  Once, a declaration like that might have upset his partner, maybe even been taken personally, but they knew each other too well for that now.  Or at least, Starsky had thought they had.

"Care to explain that?" Hutch had invited, his hand still warm on Starsky's, fingers curling around his forearm in an unabashed expression of caring he clearly didn't care who saw or interpreted how.

"No," had been Starsky's eloquent response.

His partner could take a hint – a couple hundred hints, in fact – but it didn't change anything when he knew Starsky was hurting.  Some people you just couldn't get rid of.  They just loved you too much to be hindered by your faults. Unconditional love: it was supposed to be something parents gave.  Instead, he'd found it in one blind Midwestern blond.

And the thought had made Starsky inexcusably angry.

He'd pulled his hand away from Hutch and defiantly downed the remainder of the bottle.

"Starsky, I think you've had enough."

Hutch's voice had firmed a little, moving into a big brother mode of his own.  Didn't he know Starsky was the man of the family?

"I don't," Starsky had answered, drawing the next bottle over to him and knocking the opened cap off.  It tumbled off the table to clink onto the floor, and following its track he could see that most of the bar seemed to be watching, even listening to them.  Let them listen.  He was entitled to say and think whatever he felt.

A harder grip on his hand now, freezing it momentarily.  "I do," Hutch said calmly, seriously.

"Cut it out, Hutch," he'd growled, not yet pulling away.  He wasn't sure he could.  "This is none of your business."  He wasn't even drunk enough to slur his words, darn it, even though he'd been trying to be.

No excuse.

"It's my business if you decide to drink yourself into a stupor.  It's my business if something's eating at you or hurting you.  It's my business if it's **you** , and you know it."  The eyes, that gentle blue even when Hutch was chewing him out, went softer still.  "Starsk, you're scaring me.  Tell me what's wrong."

And Starsky had opened his mouth and answered.  Temporary insanity, maybe, but that was just another reason.  There had been no excuse.

"What's wrong is that I wanna be left alone and get stinkin' drunk."  It had been, God help him, almost a sneer, like some store of poison he hadn't even known existed had just been tapped.  "What's wrong is that I want to forget my family and this city and this job and you.  You know what I mean, Hutch – you've done it, too.  If it wasn't a bottle, it was a needle, right?  I bet you forgot everything when you were flyin'.  I bet it felt good, and . . . I. . ."

And that was when his brain had begun to catch up to his mouth, the rush of toxic words splashing to a horrified halt.

The bar had fallen dead silent.

Hutch hadn't moved; Starsky would have sworn he wasn't even breathing.  The only visible change was that his face had gone utterly white.  And the shine of love, there for most of ten years, even when they were yelling at each other and calling each other names, slowly died.

_ Oh, my God. _   What had he done?

Hutch's hand jerked off Starsky's arm, his gaze fallen to the table now, and then very stiffly he stood and walked out the front door.

Every last one of Starsky's muscles coiled in desperate want to get up and run after the retreating figure, but he didn't move.  Instinct worked both ways.  Just as surely as he wanted to go make things right, Starsky knew with hideous certainty he wouldn't be able to.  He'd just said the unforgivable to the one person in the world who would have forgiven him anything.

And why?

He had no good reason.  No excuse at all.

Starsky didn't drink another drop that night.  But it was almost an hour later before he gathered himself enough together to stop staring at the table and finally pushed himself to his feet.  Shoving the stupid teletype strip into his pocket, he stumbled out amidst the staring eyes and buzzing voices to try to find his way home.

Sometimes, he'd envied his partner's restless energy.  When Starsky was upset, he was usually all motion, whether tearing a room apart in his frustration or tidying his place to ultra perfection in order to give himself something to do.  Maybe that was what he was doing at that moment.  If he was upset at all.

For Hutch, the ground had fallen out from under his feet, and all he could manage was to sit on the couch, hands clenching the cushions on either side, and try not to think.

_ Why? _

Both of them had mouthed off before when something was bothering them, usually to each other, since the other tended to be the closest person around.  And something had clearly been bothering Starsky.  Even Simmons had known as much when he'd called Hutch and told him Starsky was holed up in the Short Stop, drowning himself in booze.  Hutch had seen it as soon as he'd caught sight of Starsky in that back booth.

But this, this was . . . this was betrayal.

And, dear God, it **hurt**.

There had been two other times when Starsky had teetered on the edge of going too far.  One had been a thoughtless prank that had sent Hutch, blindfolded, tumbling down Starsky's front steps.  It had been hard to forgive after that, but he had.  Starsky hadn't meant to hurt him, after all, even though he'd been stupidly reckless.  Ironically, the other time had been when IA had found out about Hutch's forced drugging at  Forest 's hands, a secret that Hutch had believed at first his partner had given away.  The thought of that deliberate betrayal had rocked him then, too, but it had turned out to be untrue, Starsky vowing he would never betray Hutch's trust so.  And he hadn't.

Until that evening.  Until Starsky had all but called him a junkie in front of a bar full of cops.

It would be around the station by next morning, Hutch had no doubt of that, and the thought filled him with a shame he hadn't felt in several years.  Not since Starsky had worked so hard, so patiently to help him put to rest his whole heroin nightmare.

_ Why? _   Why, to only rub his face in it years later, in front of the most damning audience possible?

He'd never, ever set out to hurt Starsky like that, not even with Kira, no matter how angry he was.  There were just some lines you didn't cross and still remain friends.  And Starsky had just leapt over one in a bound.

_ Why? _

Because, obviously, he wasn't the man Hutch had called friend and partner all those years.

It was such a huge thought, he couldn't even comprehend it at first.  Not to know the man he'd fought and bled and cried and laughed with for over ten years?  Not to know him when they'd been to hell and back so many times, when he'd seen Starsky at his worst, and in turn shown his ugliest, dirtiest side and still been welcomed back with open arms?  Was that possible?

But how was it not?

Nothing else was logical, even though none of it made real sense.  Starsky had set out to hurt him in the crudest, most painful way possible, in the process probably costing Hutch his job and his circle of friends in the department.  The man Hutch had thought he'd known inside-out could never have done that, not to him.

His heart was being torn in two, and it hurt beyond what he thought he could bear.  But half that heart – half his life, truth be told – was Starsky, and his partner had made the irreparably deep cut.

All that history they shared, memories only Starsky had besides him.  The hellish withdrawal after he'd escaped from  Forest 's hands, Starsky coaxing and babying him through it.

_ Just doing what was needed to get his partner back into shape and keep a black mark off our record _ , his ruthless mind argued.

Taking care of him physically and emotionally when Gillian had died.

_ No doubt Starsky felt sorry for me. _

Finding him at the bottom of  Topanga Canyon after the accident that had pinned him under his car and left Hutch to die.

_ Even Starsky wouldn't leave a fellow cop to die, alone and injured. _

Finding Callendar and the cure to the plague that had nearly wrung the life out of Hutch's body.

_ But then, that saved the city in general, didn't it?  Starsky even got a commendation. _

Risking his own career by refusing to arrest Hutch on the suspicion of killing his ex-wife.

_ That wouldn't have looked good for Starsky, either, would it? _

And what about all the times he'd been there for Starsky?  Through several injuries, a hostage situation, a horrific poisoning, through the loss of Terry and then through the Valley of the Shadow of Death itself, when he'd been so sure Gunther's bullets would take his partner for good.  He'd been there for every possible moment of the long recovery afterwards, rejoicing wholeheartedly with Starsky when the brunet could return to duty.  Hutch's eyes watered at the thought of all the suffering they'd waded through, and all the love he'd poured into his partner through those trying times.  All in vain?

Every damning memory of their shared life seemed determined to present itself, and Hutch determinedly picked through each one, searching for one moment that he could point to as proof of Starsky's selfless love.  Or maybe, truthfully, looking for the cracks Hutch had never seen before.

When you looked hard enough for something, you usually found it.  Their job had taught them that.

No, there had been caring there, and love.  Even he hadn't been **that** misled, Hutch had to admit.  But clearly it wasn't as much, as deep as the _me & thee_ commitment he'd made.  You didn't willingly wreck the life of someone you truly loved.  No motive, no emotion could excuse that.

So his soul had pronounced sentence.  Now, all Hutch had to do was live with it.

But how did you live with one half of yourself ripped away?

Hutch sat there on the couch, letting ten years of commitment go, until he fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.  Leaving it behind was the only way he'd survive.

Bird song right outside his window woke him with a start.

Starsky lifted his head blearily, staring for a moment at the robin that sat outside the window, then around at the room, wondering why it was at a different angle than usual.

Maybe because he was, he finally discovered.  He didn't usually sleep diagonally across the bed, in his clothes on top of the covers.  What the–?

And then memory, that bane, returned to torment him.

"Oh, my God," he murmured, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, then slowly back off the bed.  But there was no hangover to speak of, only the heaviest of dread threatening to drag his heart down into his shoes.  "Oh, my God."  He'd really said the words, and not even talked to Hutch since then.  He had to apologize, to beg if he had to. . .

Starsky stumbled in a rush to the phone beside the bed and nearly dropped the receiver as he hurried to dial.  The number he knew by heart, by soul.

It rang, one, three, seven, ten times.

He dropped the receiver in a daze.  Hutch wasn't out – he didn't believe it.  He just wasn't picking up, and Starsky couldn't really blame him.  But the phone was inadequate for this, anyway.  Hutch deserved an apology to his face, one full of the humility that bowed Starsky's head in condemnation.  Hutch deserved a lot more than that, in fact.  Starsky had a lot of making up to do, both to his partner and with the department.

A minute later, he was running out the door.

The memory of his words made him cringe every time he thought about them on the drive over.  And the details he'd been too busy to notice then: the jaws that dropped around the room, the whispers that had begun soon after.  Making things right with Hutch was just the first step; he had his partner's reputation to clear, as well, and the new waves I.A. would be making.  The agreement had been that I.A. would let the matter slide, seeing as it hadn't been Hutch's fault, with the understanding that the two of them would also continue to keep their silence.  It had seemed such an easy promise then. . .

And then there were all their friends and colleagues.  There was only so much you could fix a reputation after the rumors had started.  Starsky groaned aloud with the thought.  How could he have done it?  Pain and frustration with his family had given him no cause or right to hurt Hutch so badly.

Unforgivably?

Starsky didn't think he could stand that.

He roared up to the Venice apartment, parking just behind Hutch's LTD and sliding across the hood of his car in his haste, up the building's steps in moments.  And there he hesitated only for a heartbeat before knocking, hard.

Ten seconds passed – he counted them.  No sound from within.  Starsky knocked again, adding a pleading, "Hutch?"  This time he waited a full minute.

No answer.  Mrs. Johnson across the hall opened her door, froze at the look he gave her, and quickly went back inside.

Starsky chewed his lip.  "I'm coming in," he finally announced, and pulled his keys from his pocket, already fingering Hutch's, one he used nearly as often as his own.

The soft scrape and rattle of metal announced the chain had just been fastened on the inside of the door.

Starsky's mouth was dry, his throat too narrow.  So Hutch had been there on the other side all along.  And he'd just made it abundantly clear Starsky was not welcome.  Starsky cleared his throat.  "Hutch, please, let me in," he said softly.  "We hav'ta talk."

The silence pressed down on his soul, until Starsky wasn't sure how long he could bear its weight.

"Please, Hutch," he croaked, begging outright now.  "I'm sorry – I wish t' God I'd never said it, but. . ."

But he had.  And the man on the other side of the door couldn't forget that.

His throat and eyes burned, and Starsky choked on tears.  That awful silence was like a death knell – his partner was gone.  And he had killed him.

His last plea was silent, his hand sliding helplessly off of where he'd pressed it against the door.  And then Starsky finally turned, the weighty stillness following him, and falteringly went back to his car.

The drive to the station was an automatic one, his thoughts not in it.  He didn't even see the red light he almost went through, only a car's protesting horn jarring him into stopping just in time.  Good God, what had he done?  It was like a murder, with two victims.  And while Hutch didn't have his guilt, he would have the far worse burden of betrayal.  Didn't his partner know Starsky loved him as he'd loved no one else in his life outside his blood family?  That he would have given everything he owned to take back the night before?

How could Hutch, when he still bore the fresh wound of Starsky's deliberate injury?

Where had that venom even come from?  Starsky turned gratefully to that question to distract his thoughts.  The night before, he'd sat in that booth and examined his every feeling and memory, searching for resentment he'd let gather unheeded, some source for the hatred he'd aimed at Hutch, and had come up empty.  The memories weren't all good and there had been disappointments, but both of them were human and Starsky could accept that.  Surely there was nothing that wasn't forgiven or far outweighed by all Hutch had done for him?  The love Starsky had accrued for his partner, the affection and concern and gratitude and trust were as solid as ever.  Almost too much so, for the threat of their loss was terrible.

So, why?  Self-punishment, to push Hutch away?  Was he really so selfish to do that in a way that would cause the other such pain?  It was the only answer Starsky could find that made sense.

As if anything made sense.

Starsky parked mechanically in the back lot of Parker and crept inside.

The news had traveled even faster than he'd been afraid it would.  Starting with Rose, the pretty uniform at the front desk, his short nods of greetings were met with stares that bored holes into his back as he passed them.  Everyone knew.  And if they were looking like that at him, Starsky didn't even want to imagine what treatment his partner would get.

He went straight to Dobey's office.

The captain's face was unusually solemn as Starsky entered, and the detective nearly flinched from the look the older man gave him.

"Cap'n . . . it was my fault.  But it was a mistake."

Dobey gently put his pencil down and leaned back in his chair.  "I've heard as much.  But you realize it's your partner who's going to pay for it."

Starsky sank down into one of the chairs in the room and nodded miserably.  "I'm gonna talk to I.A.  Maybe–"

"I.A.'s already called," Dobey interrupted.  "They want to see Hutch when he comes in, not you.  But I'd say Internal Affairs is the least of your concerns, Starsky."

He didn't seem to have blood left in his body.  Starsky's head was light, his skin prickling with cold.  "I know," he said numbly.  "Everybody else knows."

Dobey was shaking his head.  "I don't want to let you off the hook – what you did was irresponsible and might cost your partner his career and a lot of friends.  But it seems to me you already know that."

This was a nightmare, one he'd started and couldn't seem to finish.  No matter which way he turned, Hutch was the one who would have to pay for his stupidity and big mouth.  And they didn't even have each other to get them through it this time.  Starsky just swallowed dryly and nodded.

Dobey seemed to soften, oddly enough, and he leaned forward, hands laced on his desk.  "Starsky . . . I want you to go home."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Does Hutch want you here?"

Each time he thought he couldn't hurt worse, it turned out he was wrong.  Starsky shook his head, grieving.

"Then go home, son.  Things will be hard enough around here for a little while without the two of you stumbling over each other.  Give it a little time.  Then we'll talk about what happens next."

Starsky just nodded again.  Maybe he'd wrecked his own career, too.  Who would trust a cop whom even his partner couldn't trust?  How could he walk into that building again when he couldn't even look at his superior without a flood of shame?  And Dobey was right, things would be hard enough for Hutch for a while without having him there as reminder, too.

With a clumsy good-bye, he stumbled out of the office.

The flash of blond down the hall caught his eye.

Hutch had just come up the stairs, a weary trudge to his steps and slump to his shoulders that Starsky had hoped he'd never see again.  As the brunet watched, a uniform approaching the steps gave a start at the sight of the detective and passed to the far side of the staircase.  Even down the hall, Starsky caught the wince of the hunched body in response.  The memory returned of Hutch's blanched face the night before, and Starsky forgot his own pain for a moment, caught up in the shock of his partner's.

And then, with that still-present telepathy of theirs, Hutch's head rose and his eyes locked with Starsky's.

The air faltered in Starsky's lungs.  If he'd had any doubts of the magnitude of what he'd done, of the pain he'd caused the night before, they were crushed by that look.  For the first time in ten years, that face, those eyes, held no feeling for him.  Nothing but anger and emptiness.  And he'd been the cause of it all.

He was the one who broke the gaze, and turned to almost run out of the building, leaving Hutch's damning stare behind.

He didn't even remember the trip back home.

The day had defined the term "work" more than any other Hutch had ever remembered spending at Parker.  Even when the two of them had been tied to a desk, buried in paperwork, there had been the lightening banter, the sudden grins and stupid jokes that had made the work go more easily.

That, like the rest of his life, had all been turned upside-down.

Now the looks he received were hostile, condemning.  The whispers followed him, the innuendoes and rumors.  They didn't know the truth, but that had never stopped people from believing what they wished.

And there was no one sitting across the desk from him to share the load and make it all bearable.

Dobey had sent him to I.A. first thing with a sympathetic glance that grated on Hutch.  I.A. hadn't been much better; clearly they were as lost about this as he was.  Nearly.  After hemming and hawing and "we'll keep in touch," he'd been sent back to Dobey.  Fifteen minutes later, fifteen minutes of long glances from his colleagues and that damned empty chair on the other side of the desk, Hutch went in to ask for and received a temporary transfer to Robbery.

The captain there, Milo Christian, had taken pity on him and sent him out the rest of the day to do victim interviews.  It was mindless, uniform work, but Hutch had been grateful to escape the claustrophobia of the station.

But it had still been an interminable day.  Was that what was waiting for him for ten more years until retirement?  A tarnished reputation, being the outcast of the department, work that was true labor?  Hutch didn't think he could stand that.

He'd loved the job at first.  Even when he hadn't, he'd loved being Starsky's partner.  And when he'd reached the point that he was ready to chuck his badge, Starsky had quit right along with him.  It had been such a given that whatever they'd do, they'd do together.  He would have resigned again if Starsky hadn't been able to fully recover from Gunther's attack, gone with him somewhere to piece their life back together, but when Starsky had bounced back, Hutch had found new joy and purpose in the job.

But now . . . how could so many things change in one day?

Some part of him had listened to that broken plea outside his door that morning and wanted to respond to it, to answer it and fix everything, but that wasn't really possible, was it?  The unexpected sight of Starsky down the hall, and the even more unexpected fury – almost hatred – that had swept through him as their eyes had met, had answered that.  All the love in him toward his former best friend and partner seemed to have turned into rage overnight.

He almost snorted at the irony.  Rage at what, ruining a career he no longer wanted?

That was part of it, but if he was honest, it was the smaller part.  What really made him furious was the ruining of a friendship that had shamelessly been the thing he'd valued most in his life.  Although he didn't look too closely at that wrath, afraid he'd find it was really grief in disguise.

Hutch hadn't returned to Parker that afternoon, checking in only by phone with Christian to give his new boss the results of his interviews.  At least the captain was treating him normally, willing to let his work speak for him and not giving him either sympathy or suspicion.  Hutch would have hated either one.

As anxious as Hutch was to get home after work, though, he found the LTD heading inexorably to Westchester, finally stopping a few houses down from the one in front of which a red-and-white Torino sat.  There he idled indefinitely, watching the dark house for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

What was he waiting for, anyway?  Hutch finally drove the last hundred feet, stopping next to Starsky's car.  Pulling an envelope out of his pocket, he stared at it a long moment before getting out to wedge it under the Torino's wipers.  Then he got back into his car and, without a look back, drove away.

Once upon a time, he'd started each day with enthusiasm and expectation, wondering what it would bring, determined to enjoy whatever he could.

Now, the days seemed endless.

The nights brought escape, and Starsky found himself going to bed earlier every night, nevertheless dragging himself out of bed when it was time to go to work again.  Days off became days to sleep in and then doze the time away in front of the TV.  And meals were more trouble than they were worth, especially when he wasn't all that hungry.

He'd tried to go on.  Dobey had called him back two days after everything had gone wrong, explaining that Hutch had requested a transfer and was out most of the day.  Apparently, their boss was as anxious for the two of them to avoid each other as they were.  Detectives in Special Units were allowed to solo if they wished – their friend and colleague Gabe Bonhomme had done so his whole time in the division – and that was what Starsky had opted for, too.  Officially, it was temporary, as was Hutch's transfer.  But Starsky knew better.  The two times he'd caught brief sight of Hutch at the station had assured him of as much.  The anger seemed to have faded, but the emptiness in the blue eyes at the sight of him was that of a stranger's.

And so the hollow days trudged on into hollow evenings.  He'd tried a date one night, but it had ended disastrously.  The girl had finally declared a cadaver would have been more fun, and Starsky hadn't resented her for it.  He should have known better.  How could you start a new relationship or enjoy anything when you were still grieving?

Or hated yourself, for that matter.

The sky that evening was gorgeous, streaked with pinks and purples as the sun took its time setting.  Starsky paused getting out of the car to look at it for long minutes.

There was beauty still in the world, he finally decided.  It was time to start finding it again and move on.

The new resolution seemed to give him renewed sight, and Starsky stared at the house as he walked in.  The strewn clothes and dishes and bottles.  The dust that layered every surface.  The air of disinterest in the place.  He'd let housework slide since . . . things happened, and it was showing.  Hanging up his gun on the hatrack by the door, Starsky rolled up his sleeves and dug in.

The kitchen was first, the dirty dishes washed and carefully piled on the drainer.  Shelves were wiped down, counters cleaned, and the refrigerator emptied of rotting and ignored food.  Starsky didn't let himself think about the two boxes of granola that sat by themselves in the cupboard, only cleaning around them.  He hated granola – they hadn't been in there for him.  But there was no hurry throwing away a non-perishable, right?  It would even be wasteful.  Maybe Kiko. . .

But Kiko was Hutch's "little brother."  Starsky didn't even know if he'd ever see the teen again.

He resolutely shut the cupboard door and went on.

Milton the plant sat on the table between the kitchen and living room, also looking droopy and ignored.  A gift from Hutch.  Starsky went out to the TV and flicked it on, concentrating on the game scores being announced as he watered the plant.

In the living room, magazines were straightened or tossed, one of them about greenhouses.  The book of Bradbury's stories Hutch had pulled out to read was returned to the shelf.  Under the sofa was a sock that wasn't his own, and Starsky threw it firmly into the laundry hamper.  On into the bedroom, to strip and change the bed, then pick up all the discarded clothes on the floor.  He put the first load of clothes into the washer without acknowledging that the blue sweater in it also wasn't his.

And then, beside the bed, he stopped.

The white envelope sat there innocently next to his clock and lamp.

He knew what was in it, had known it the moment he'd pulled it from his windshield and felt the heavy shapes inside, so there had been no need to open it.  Nor had he found the strength to do so before, for he also knew what it meant.  Well, it wasn't like you could officially divorce a best friend, right?  You could stop being partners, which Hutch had already effectively done.  You could stop spending time together, also easily accomplished.  But it still didn't mean things were permanently finished between them.  For all Starsky could pretend, his partner could have been on vacation.

But not with that envelope on his table.  Starsky sank onto the edge of the bed and picked it up to stare at it, then gently turned it over and lifted the flap.  The contents slid into his palm: no note, just a pair of keys.

Keys to a house and to a car, a Ford.  Torino, to be exact.

He'd given Hutch a house key almost awkwardly a few months into their friendship, with a shrug and an offhand comment about how Hutch could keep an eye on the place when Starsky went on vacation.  Hutch hadn't said anything then, but a key had shown up on Starsky's desk the day after Hutch got his own place, after Van left him.  It had since been used more times than Starsky could count, when they were checking up on each other, helping the other out when one of them was off his feet, even a few awful times they’d looked for the missing other.  They'd both changed houses since then, but a spare key was always the first matter to attend to upon moving in.

And the car – there had been a few times when he'd been in trouble, missing or hurt, and Hutch was out on the streets alone.  And he'd always taken the Torino then.  Maybe it made him feel closer to his absent partner.  Maybe it was just that the lines of "mine" and "yours" had blurred over time.

Until now.  Until the gift – the taken-for-granted offering – had been refused.

How many times could a man curse himself a fool?

Then again, what was the point when he'd already been cursed to lose the truest friend he'd ever had?

Anguish, held off by aggressive work and sleep, stole over Starsky’s heart, a blackness and hopelessness that just went on and on.  All the times he'd been afraid of Hutch dying had never been like this, this deliberate loss.  The double hammering of separation and guilt, growing heavier each time he caught a glimpse of Hutch's face at work. . .

A wet drop splashed on the paper envelope, then another.

It hurt worse than Gunther's bullets or Bellamy's poison, like a constant ache that weighed down both his body and spirit, that made every thought difficult and every task an ordeal.  All the joy was gone, while the hardships had grown harder.  And he didn't want to do it anymore.  Not alone.

_ Oh, Hutch. _

The tears ran harder, his breath heaving.

All the other terrible times in his life were tempered and suffused by Hutch's love and support.  Terry's death, Marcus's cult's torture, even the long ordeal of Gunther's hit and the slow recovery afterwards.  It'd been Hutch who had gotten him past them and made him want to go on.

How would he get past losing Hutch?

Starsky slid off the mattress to sit on the floor next to the bed, the keys pressing red indentations into his hand, but he didn't notice or care.  What did any of it matter now?

Starsky leaned his head back against the mattress and sobbed his broken heart out.

The phone rang just as Hutch wearily unlocked the door, and he let it, not hurrying.  With any luck, the person at the other end would hang up before he reached it.  Sometimes he picked up the phone to hear only silence at the other end, and he would quickly hang up.  He had an idea who that was and Hutch didn't like thinking about it.

But the phone was still ringing as he scooped it up with a disinterested, "Hello?"

"Ken?  It's Rachel."

Hutch hesitated, trapped.  Starsky's mom.  He'd grown to love her, too, but now. . . "Rachel, hello," he said with some warmth.  Couldn't blame her for what had happened, after all, right?  "What can I do for you?"

"Did you work today?"

The question caught him off-guard.  "Uh, yeah, I just got home."

"Oh, good, then you've seen Davey.  Please, Ken, tell me what's wrong with him."

Hutch found himself suddenly speechless.  Apparently Starsky hadn't told his mom what had happened.  And Hutch certainly wasn't about to.  "What do you mean?" he evaded.

"There is something wrong – I can hear it when he's called me the last two times.  He does not say it, but I know.  You must see it, too.  What is it?  Ken, I'm worried.  It's not . . . not the doctor, no?"

"Not the–  Oh, no, Rachel.  Not the doctor – he's fine," Hutch said quickly, and felt a twist at the truth of it.  Why shouldn't Starsky be, he wasn't the hurt party.  "I . . . guess he's just got a lot on his mind right now." 

She sighed.  "I know this.  I should not have told him about his brother, but I was so upset."

Hutch's eyebrows rose.  As much as he didn't want to be taking part in this conversation, he had to know.  "His brother?"

"Nicholas.  I have always suspected, but the arrest – it was still difficult.  But you know, I think now it was God's blessing.  He has changed since then, and Trudy has told him he must earn her trust again.  I believe he will do it.  But with Davey a policeman. . ."

Hutch was putting two and two together.  "I know what you mean," he agreed earnestly.  "When was Nick arrested again?"

"Last month.  The 18th.  That I will never forget."

The 18th.  Hutch wouldn't, either.  At least now he had a reason why.

But still not an excuse.

"Rachel, I think he's just got a lot to sort through right now.  He'll be all right."  Starsky always bounced back, no matter what.  Hutch wasn't positive if he was glad or resented that.

Another sigh.  "Well, if you think so, Ken.  Please, keep an eye on him.  I think he is very lonely right now.  He needs a good friend like you."

He stumbled through the good-bye, pierced by her words.  A good friend.  That didn't happen in a vacuum.  You couldn't be a good friend with someone who wasn't one in return, let alone one who had stabbed you in the back.  But of course, Rachel didn't know that.  Keep an eye on him – Hutch didn't even want to see Starsky again, and was surprised at the vehemence of the reaction.  But every glimpse of his former partner at the station shoved the blade a little deeper.  Someday, he told himself, someday he'd quit feeling it.

The responses he was getting at work helped widen the gap.  The worst of the whispers had faded after the first two weeks, but eyes watched him sharply wherever he went, as damning as if he had a scarlet "A" pinned to his chest.  _Addict_.  Hutch's eyes closed in shame.  The insinuations and assumptions hurt nearly as much as the betrayal of his partner's that had led to them.  Starsky had effectively cut everything that mattered to Hutch – his job, his reputation, his honor . . . his best friend – out of his life.

He shakily hung up the phone, staring at it for a long minute.  There was another option.  There was no point in continuing to make things so hard for both of them, was there?

He reached for the phone just as it rang again.

"Yeah?" he snapped, more impatiently this time.

"Hutchinson?  It's Dobey."

He frowned.  The move to Robbery, while theoretically a demotion, had worked out well thus far, Captain Christian pleased with his work and Hutch enjoying the chance to be mostly out of the station and completely out of Special Units.  But he hadn't seen much or worked at all with Dobey since then, either.  "Yeah, Cap'n?"

"I just thought you should know, Starsky's at Inglewood Hospital.  He was shot. . ."

A cold rush ran over Hutch, his legs suddenly wobbly, and he sank down on the couch.

". . . not too serious, flesh wound in the leg, but he'll be laid up for a few days.  They're sending him home to rest."

He managed to get his mouth moving again.  "Uh, yeah, thanks, Cap'n."  And numbly hung up.

It wasn't serious.  Flesh wound – another scar to add to the collection.  Maybe even on the leg he'd been shot in once before, when they'd been held at bay in that deserted barn by an old enemy of Hutch's.  Or perhaps the other leg, the one with the ankle he'd sprained three times before, once reacting so psychotically to the painkiller he'd been given for it that he'd ended up in the psych ward before they figured out what was wrong.

Hutch ground his hand into his eyes.  Did it matter?  Starsky was a big boy and could worry about himself now, or his new partner could, whatever.  Hutch didn't even know if Starsky had gotten a new partner.  Of course he was relieved the man was all right – Hutch wouldn't have wanted anyone to be seriously hurt, let alone another cop.  But it didn't have to go beyond that.  It wasn't going beyond that, he thought firmly.  Starsky had killed all chance of that the month before, hadn't he?

You couldn't douse ten years' worth of caring instincts, not overnight or even over a month.  But you could if you systematically worked at it, and Starsky had given him every reason to.  Sometimes Hutch could think about his former partner with almost ambivalence.  Sometimes he even thought he hated him.  And sometimes . . . Well, old habits died hard.

Even when they were murdered.

But as for his earlier idea, Hutch reached for the phone again, this time dialing the long distance number he knew by heart.  The answering voice drew his mouth into a smile despite himself.

"Hi, Mom.  Can I speak to Dad?  Thanks, I'm fine."

His eyes nearly filled at the love in her voice, and he worked to steady his voice by the time his dad picked up.

A minute, then, "Dad?  Hi.  I'm fine, thank you.  The reason I called is, that job you were talking about a while ago with Jim's company?  Do you know if it’s still open?"

Dobey called him in the first day back on the job. 

Starsky eased down into the chair.  His leg still hurt at every jar, even though he was using the cane, and he let out a sigh as both weight on the limb and movement were suspended for a moment.  "You wanted to see me, Cap'n?"

Dobey eyed him hard.  "How's the leg, Starsky?"

He shrugged.  "'S okay."

"Good."  A pause.  "I.A.'s made its decision."

Starsky blinked.  "Yeah?"

"Since their original decision cleared Hutchinson, they don't intend to take up any charges against him."

It was something, even if it didn't even remotely penetrate the gloom that had settled into his life.  Starsky nodded, not quite pulling off a smile.  He didn't think he'd smiled in over a month.

Dobey cleared his throat.  "However, they've decided that since you originally acted to cover up the truth of the matter, and were the instigator of the matter coming to light, you're to be officially reprimanded."

Once, he might have cared.  Or maybe not, as long as he had what was important.  Now that he had lost that, he cared even less.  Starsky shifted in his seat.  "That all, Cap'n?"

"That's a black mark on your permanent record, Starsky," Dobey frowned at him.

He totteringly pushed himself to his feet.  "Doesn't matter much anymore, does it, sir?" was his pointed response.  "Damage has been done.  We've both paid for it already."  The last was nearly a whisper.

Dobey had no response, and Starsky hobbled out of the room.

Thank God I.A. hadn't seen fit to punish the victim; Hutch had been hurt more than enough, and it would have added to Starsky's burden, too, but that was inconsequential.  All that mattered was that it hadn't added to Hutch's.  As for him, now that it was official, he knew what to do.

The hours ticked off until end of watch, and Starsky finally left, making his slow way down to the street.  Instead of turning toward the parking lot, though, he set off in the opposite direction, toward the Short Stop.

The usual after-work crowd had assembled by the time he reached the front doors.  The same people gravitated there after each shift, and if he'd been paying attention, Starsky bet he could have identified some of the same faces from that evening over a month before.  In fact, he was counting on it.

It took a little sweat and effort to get the door open, but he managed, noticing the noise level in the room decidedly drop as faces looked up and saw him.  Good.  He wanted them to look.

Starsky limped to the bar and without hesitation rapped his cane on it.  All eyes that hadn't already been on him were so now.

"Can I have your attention please?"  That was unnecessary – he had it.  "Thank you.  Most of you probably know me – I'm Detective Dave Starsky, SUD.  And most of you probably know Hutch – Detective Ken Hutchinson, formerly my partner."

The rustle of a light breeze would have been loud in the still, quiet room.

He shifted forward a half-step.  "What you've also probably heard about Hutch is a bunch of rumors and lies about him and drug use I unfortunately started.  But I want to tell ya the truth."

No judgment, just curiosity in the faces.  That was unusually good, especially for this bunch.

"You see, some of you might remember about five years ago when Hutch was kidnapped by Ben Forest.  He had a rough time – was off work almost two weeks to recover.  Forest didn't just work him over, though, he strung him out, then was gonna kill him."  Starsky shook his head, still marveling at this part.  "Somehow, he got away, and I found him and helped him through the crash."

A few whispers now.  He ignored them.

"I didn't tell anybody because I knew this would happen – everybody knows cops're worse than old ladies when it comes to gossip."  He earned a few smiles, and didn't care.  "But Hutch deserved better.  He was held down and shot up with the stuff.  It was torture, just like usin' a fist or a whip.  And then he had to go through cold turkey, too, but he did it.  Any of you have the guts to do that?"

No answers.  Starsky hadn't expected any.  He tilted his head.  "Don't think I would.  He went through hell 'cause of some drug dealer – he shouldn't have to be reminded of it by his friends, don'tcha think?"

A scattering of slow nods.

Starsky's voice fell.  "It's my fault this got out.  Give me the hard time, not him, huh?  He deserves better than that."

And he turned and clumped toward the door.

"Hey, Starsky," a voice called out, a familiar one.  Starsky half-turned to see Ed Babcock, one of the detectives from SUD.  The man shrugged.  "We didn't know."

He half-smiled at that.  "Yeah."  And then he blindly hurried out before his eyes and voice betrayed him completely.

Three hours later, he sat in the parked Torino, rubbing at those raw, red eyes as he stared at the building before him.  Tall and proud, a white steeple pointing heavenward – it was a place that brought _goyim_ peace.  But it was Hutch's church and Starsky had been there with his partner before, even knew the pastor by name, and had been drawn there by a force he couldn't name.

Or maybe he could.  Utter despair.

The scene at the bar had been his last stand.  Hutch had deserved that much – indeed, he deserved anything Starsky could do to fix things, but that had been precious little.  Still, he'd done what he'd could, and now. . .

Now.

He'd always thought of himself as a strong man.  He'd survived the violent loss of his father, then being torn away from his family.  He'd survived life on the streets of L.A. in a makeshift gang, and the jungles of Vietnam, then ten years as a cop, his toughest challenge yet.  And through it all he'd not only survived, but thrived, strengthened by every crisis met and vanquished.

But it had been Hutch, that incongruous mix of culture and farm boy, who'd made it easy.

Sure, it was Starsky's nature to be hardy.  Hutch hadn't been there for him when his pop had been shot, or when Starsky had learned about killing in country.  It had been Hutch, though, with whom Starsky had realized how much faster he recovered with someone to lean on, how much lighter the scars were with someone to make it better.  And having experienced that, coping alone became a very empty way of life.

Starsky scrubbed his gritty eyes with one hand, the aggressive toughness he'd fallen back on no longer strong enough to hold him.  Nothing was strong in him anymore, all the defenses and walls broken or cracking.  The speech in the bar had been the last thing he'd been able to muster the energy for, and that only because it had been for Hutch.  He didn't even know how he'd make it back to his home now, to fall into the oblivion of sleep and hope he wouldn't wake up.  How could you see to do **anything** when it was so dark?

Starsky's hand, softly rubbing at his holster the whole time he'd been sitting there, reached for the door handle instead.

The church was closed now, of course, but the rectory was right next door and golden light glowed a welcome in its windows.  Leaning hard on the cane, Starsky slowly made his way toward the house and knocked.

The door opened, light spilling out into the darkness and making him blink a few times.  Framed in the door was the large figure of Reverend Stewart.  Starsky had made his acquaintance with the pastor years before and kept him abreast of Hutch's struggles whenever the blond was out of commission for a while.  In exchange, he'd developed an almost friendship with the man.

The mustachioed face broke into a grin at the sight of him.  "Detective Starsky!  How good to see you!"  Then, noticing the leg, a frown.  "Are you all right?"

Starsky waved it off feebly.  "Just a scratch.  Can I, uh, talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure."  The screen door was held open for him, the pastor patiently waiting as Starsky struggled inside.  A gentle hand led him down a short hallway into a comfortable, friendly living room, and a dark-haired woman who smiled at him, introduced herself as Mrs. Stewart, then excused herself and disappeared.

Reverend Stewart settled him into a plush easy chair, taking a seat on the couch diagonal to him, and then just waited.

Starsky glanced around the room, swallowing before he met the pastor's kind eyes, looking away again before he could speak.

"I did something unforgivable last month. . ." he began.

He was rubbing abashedly at his wet cheeks by the time he was done, but Stewart only nudged a box of tissues on the coffee table closer to him.  Starsky wondered idly if he had a lot of visitors who started bawling.  Maybe if they'd hit the dark and sharp-rocked bottom, too.  The world had narrowed to that little living room and he couldn't see past it anymore.  He didn't even want to.  Still, it was with weary dread that Starsky stared at the dark carpet and waited for Stewart to pass the judgment he deserved.

The pastor pursed his lips.  "It seems to me you made a mistake, Dave.  A serious one, yes, but still a mistake.  You might have meant to hurt, but only in the rash heat of the moment, not out of intent to wound Ken.  I suspect you're right in that you did want in some way to hurt yourself, for this matter with your mother and brother seems to run deep.  And we can talk about that later, but I think this situation with Ken concerns you far more."

Starsky nodded mutely, energy spent.

Stewart steepled his fingers.  "And you've succeeded – you hurt yourself at least as much as Ken.  But you've also tried your best to make amends.  You've tried to apologize, you've accepted your punishment from the department, you've tried to set the record straight with your colleagues, and now you're even thinking of leaving.  What else do you have to do before you can forgive yourself?"

"Have Hutch forgive me," Starsky whispered.  He was so tired.

The larger man paused.  "That would be wonderful if it happened, Dave, but it's very hard for some people to forgive some grievances.  I suspect Ken's hurt is blinding him to the need you both have to clear the air.  He might come around or he might not, and I know that will be a hard thing for you to accept, but that still doesn't answer my question.  What else do **you** have to do in order to forgive yourself?"

"I've done everything I can think of," he answered hoarsely.  That same question had plagued Starsky's dreams and thoughts.

"I agree.  But you're allowing your forgiveness and happiness to rest on the actions of another human being, and humans can be notoriously fickle."

Starsky's snort was weak.  "You sayin' I should just forget it?"

"Not forget it."  The steepled fingers raised to Stewart's chin.  "I'm saying ask forgiveness of the One who always forgives, do all you can to make amends, and then forgive yourself and go on.  Sadder, perhaps, and even lonelier, but with a clear conscience."

Starsky shook his head slowly.  "I don't know if I can do that.  It sounds too easy."  Too easy for what he'd done.

The reverend's mouth quirked.  "Well, it's not.  You have the making amends part down, and I can see your repentance is sincere.  Forgiving yourself can be the hardest part, though.  Does it help to know that there is nothing God won't forgive?"

"It's Hutch I'm worried about."  Starsky said it almost with humor, and saw the man's eyes smile.  No wonder Hutch liked the pastor.

"Of course.  But don't rest all your hope on him, Dave.  Forgive yourself first.  Then wait and see.  Maybe he'll be able to forgive you, too, then."

In all, Stewart said the same thing about twenty different times, twenty different ways before it started to sink in.  Starsky had done all he could.  He could not have regretted his actions more, nor been more willing to do anything asked of him to fix it.  There was no more he could do, and still the weight was more than he could bear.

Forgive yourself.  Was it that easy?  And that hard?  Forgive himself even when Hutch hadn't forgiven him?  It didn't mean absolution, the pastor said.  Hutch still had a legitimate hurt.  But it meant that Starsky could go on, like a wound that would always ache but at least would no longer bleed.

By the time the pastor invited him to sack out on the couch, Starsky doubted he could have made it as far as the door.  He was drained in body and spirit, all the tears cried and the pain unloaded.  But it was with a weary peace he settled onto the soft couch.  Maybe things would never go back to the way they were, but they could go on.

His last thought as he hit the pillow was the hope Hutch find that same peace.  Maybe they weren't partners anymore, but the love, and worry, from his end would never change.  Nor would the pang of loss.

And then he slept and didn't think anything more.

"You wanted to see me, Cap'n?"  Hutch peeked his head in the door, coming in all the way when Dobey motioned to him.

The captain was on the phone but he handed Hutch a piece of folded paper as he talked.  Hutch opened it curiously and began to read: _"I, David Michael Starsky, tender my resignation to the Los Angeles Police. . ."_

He didn't get further than that, glancing up sharply as the captain hung up the phone and turned his attention to Hutch.  "This is what you called me in for, sir?"

"Partly," the captain nodded.  "Sit down, Hutch."

Uneasily, Hutch sat.

Dobey craned his neck as if working out a kink, then leveled a steely gaze at the detective.  "I'd like to know how long this temper tantrum of yours is going to last."

Hutch blinked in surprise at him.  "Cap'n–"

"I'm not finished, Hutchinson.  I've watched for five weeks as one of my best teams and the closest pair of friends I know has been pussyfooting around each other.  I've let you take a temporary transfer to Robbery, and Starsky solo.  While Milo speaks highly of your work, he's also told me you're clearly unhappy, and I can testify to how miserable your partner's been.  Now Starsky gives me this, effective at the end of the week."

"Cap'n–"

"Shut up," Dobey snapped, and Hutch shut up, taken aback.  "Now, I know what started this, and I know how much what Starsky did hurt the both of you."  His voice suddenly softened.  "But there is such a thing as forgiveness, Hutch, and if Starsky hasn't earned it by now, I don't know if he ever can."

"Maybe he can't.  Maybe some things just aren't forgivable," Hutch said quietly.

"Maybe," Dobey nodded.  "And maybe this is one of them.  But is your sense of justice so important to make it worthwhile to keep both of you unhappy?"

Hutch's face darkened.  "So you're suggesting I just forgive and forget, just like that?  Starsky practically called me a user, Cap'n, in front of a roomful of cops I work with."

"No one's questioning that you're the injured party, Hutch.  And I'm sure Starsky realizes he'll have to earn your trust again.  You'd be off the streets until he does.  But if someone's truly sorry for a mistake, one moment's serious mistake after ten years of friendship, are you ready to write him off just like that?"

Hutch's mouth gaped, then closed again.

"Seems to me Starsky's had to forgive a few whoppers, himself.  But even if you don't do it for him, son, consider it for yourself.  It doesn't seem to me you're enjoying this much, either."

Hutch stood with a jerk, chin held high.  Dobey had no idea about the whispers behind his back, the looks people gave him as if they knew what he was, the open revulsion he'd even seen in a few eyes.  How did you forgive someone whom you were supposed to trust with your life for causing something like that?  "Is that all, Cap'n?" he asked tersely.

"One more thing." Dobey held out an envelope this time.  Hutch took it warily.

"What's this?"

"A note from Starsky.  He asked me to give it to you after he left, but under the circumstances. . ."  Dobey let that hang, only nodding once at the white rectangle in Hutch's hand. And with that the detective was dismissed, the captain going back to his work.

Hutch grimaced but left, the envelope crushed in his hand.

His outraged stride slowed toward the end of the hall, and Hutch glanced again at the envelope.  The last thing he wanted was some final plea from Starsky, but . . . his expression softened as he remembered the glimpse he'd gotten of his former partner the day before.  Haggard, thin, and leaning heavily on a cane; something stirred in Hutch at the sight before the pain returned to stomp it out.  Simmons had called him later that evening to tell him about Starsky's speech at the Short Stop, leaving Hutch more bewildered than ever.  And Dobey's charge had put him on the defensive. The captain had meant to make him angry, put him on the defensive . . . but maybe there was something to what he’d said.  Hutch had seen in his job what anger, even legitimate anger, could lead to, never thinking he'd face the same struggle.

But it was so hard to forget Starsky's words that night.  How was he supposed to re-light the flame it had extinguished inside him?

Hutch turned aside into an interrogation room to open the envelope.

The note was typical Starsky, short and to the point.  Announcing his move, apologizing again – Hutch quickly moved past that part.  And stuck on the last few lines.

_ I know you don't believe it now, but I hope someday you do – I love you like a brother.  More than that, looking at how Nicky and I turned out.  As God is my witness, I'm sorry.  I don't deserve it, but I hope you forgive me someday. _

The name at the end was even more scrawled than Starsky's usual signature, as if he'd been in a hurry to finish and seal the letter.

Hutch sat at the interrogation room table, absently rubbing the small piece of paper between two fingers.  Remembering what anger and hurt hadn't let him think of before, of the sparkle in Starsky's eye when he teased his partner, the clear anguish when Hutch was hurt, the gentleness when he was trying to comfort his distraught friend.  There were thousands of examples, reasons Hutch had considered Starsky his best friend, all the little bricks of friendship over the years that had built a wall it seemed could withstand any blow.  But he'd been wrong: it wasn't the crises or the memories that had proven what they had.  It was the mortar between them, the love always there in those dark eyes for him, no matter what form it took.  Even in the bar, it hadn't been completely gone, just overlaid with pain, pain he'd taken out on Hutch.

In a way that still cut.  A way he hadn't even known Starsky capable of.

Well, no, that wasn't completely true.  There had been one time, the one time Starsky had ever hit him in anger, after finding him at Kira's and knowing Hutch had betrayed him.

There was that word again.

He **had** betrayed Starsky then, and been uncertain for a while of his forgiveness, an uncertainty that had torn him up inside and permanently wiped Kira from his good graces.  But he'd gone to his partner then, full of anguished remorse.  And Starsky had forgiven him, even comforted him.

Hutch bowed his head in shame, righteous indignation more than a little tarnished.

Yes, there was a difference.  He hadn't affected Starsky's job or reputation one bit with his actions, nor had he chosen his partner's most sensitive button to push.  And Starsky's violent initial reaction had been deserved then, not like his blind desire to hurt in the bar.

But wasn't all forgiveness about putting a legitimate injury behind you?

Hutch slowly stood.  Maybe it was too late, for both of them, to go back to the way things were.  He was thinking about returning to Duluth, Starsky already had plans to move, both of them were still hurting, and he still couldn't completely forget what had happened.  But . . . ten years of friendship deserved at least a chance to be salvaged.  If nothing else, they could both move on in peace then.

Even that thought panged in the hollow of his stomach.

Folding the note and envelope carefully in half, Hutch slid them into his pocket and left the interrogation room to return to his car.

Nearly thirty years of his life filled surprisingly few boxes.

There were a lot of books, and Starsky mentally calculated how much room they'd take up.  Even of those, he'd be leaving some behind for the Salvation Army or . . . maybe a few of Hutch's favorites he could give to Dobey.  Maybe someday Hutch would be willing to accept them.  Most of the furniture would be sold, not worth carting to New York.  Same with the kitchenware.  Some clothes, a few knickknacks and pictures – what had he to show for all that time?  It would have been an easy question once, but now, he had precious little.

Still, it was a good thing he had such meager packing to do because his leg wasn't enjoying the exercise.  Starsky winced with every step as he made his way over to the bookshelf and started taking down the volumes off the top shelf.

There was a knock at the door.

Starsky frowned; Huggy had promised to come by later that afternoon to help with the carrying, but it was still early for that.  He grabbed for the nearby cane, missed, and with a curse, hobbled to the door without it, leaning on the doorknob as he opened it.

Hutch stood on the doorstep.

President Carter's appearance would have surprised him less, and Starsky found himself staring, open-mouthed and speechless, too many emotions sweeping through him to pin one down.

Hutch's eyes were hooded, inscrutable as he looked Starsky over, then said quietly, "Can I come in?"

He finally found his misplaced tongue.  "Uh, yeah, sure."  Starsky hopped aside to allow the blond to enter.

Hutch came in just far enough to let the door be shut behind him, then stood there, eyes circling the room, resting briefly on the boxes in front of the bookshelf.  Starsky flushed – he'd thought for a second Hutch had just come to at least say good-bye, but he didn't even know Starsky was leaving.  One more moment and he'd be back out the door. . .

Starsky's hand tightened on the doorknob as he swallowed, about to launch into explanation.

Hutch's eyes had swept back to him, to his oddly balanced leg, and he nodded once at it before Starsky could speak.  "I heard you got shot."

Even the voice was so carefully neutral.  It gave no clues to what he was thinking, and for once, Starsky had no idea.  He dragged himself out of wondering and shrugged.  "Three days ago."  Then shook his head – he hadn't meant it to sound like an accusation.  "'S just a scratch."

"Are you okay?"  A polite question.

"I'm fine."

Hutch nodded, silent.

If that was why he'd come, why was he still here?  Starsky licked his lips.  "You wanna sit down?"  Good grief, they sounded so formal.

But Hutch seemed relieved to have something to respond to and nodded, following Starsky over to the couch.  He was watching Starsky limp, the brunet could feel it, although he still had no answer why.  Once, he would have called it concern, but now. . .

They sat across from each other, and lapsed into all the awkward silence of a first date.

"Dobey told me you're moving," Hutch finally said, gaze briefly flicking back to the boxes.

"Yeah," Starsky said quietly.  "New York.  Ma'll be happy."  He hadn't wanted Hutch to know until he was gone, but maybe it was better this way.  Tie up all the loose ends before he left.

Of course, the majority of the threads of his life went back to the blond sitting on his sofa.

Those opaque sky blue eyes rested on him.  "Why?"

He almost smiled, sadly.  "Same reason you went to Robbery, I guess.  I thought we could keep workin' together even if we weren't . . . friends, but it's too hard.  I don't wanna upset you anymore by bein' around, either."

"So this is for me?"  The questions were relentless.

"No," Starsky answered carefully.  "It's for me, too.  I have to move on, Hutch."

Did he imagine the wince?

Hutch suddenly stood.  "I guess there's nothing more to say then, is there?" he asked, and took a step toward the door.

Starsky stared at his ex-partner's back, more baffled than ever.  And scared to death.  "Hutch, wait," he spoke without thought.

Hutch stopped and stood where he was, unmoving, still facing away.

"Why'd you come?" Starsky asked.

In ever-so-small increments, the stiff back softened, and Hutch finally half-turned to offer him a humorless smile.  "I was reminded ten years is a long time to throw away without giving it a chance."

Starsky's heart caught between two beats, then sped up.  "That was all I was askin' for," he said in a hushed voice.

Hutch stood in silent hesitation for an endless moment, then returned to the sofa and sat.

The ball was in his court and they both knew it, Starsky waiting on the edge of his seat, Hutch seeming to try to find the words.  Although Starsky already knew what the first question would be, and he didn't have an answer any more than he did five weeks before.

But what Hutch said was, "I know about Nick."

He blinked in surprise.

Hutch's voice gentled a wary fraction.  "All you had to do was tell me – I just wanted to help."

"I know."  Starsky fingered the torn edge of his jeans.  He'd had to wear cut-offs since the shooting, his leg still too swollen to fit into his usual clothes.

"Then–"  Hutch broke off, clearly frustrated.

Starsky stared at him in sudden wonder.  Hutch wasn't going to ask, no matter how badly he wanted to.  It was an accusation Starsky couldn't answer and they both knew it, so Hutch couldn't be there to confront him.  Which left. . .

"Why?" he asked gently in Hutch's place.  This was it, no more walls left, no more excuses, as laid bare as he'd ever been in his life.  He shook his head with agonizing regret.  "I don't know, Hutch.  I wish I did so I could swear I'd never do it again.  Maybe it was from anger with Nicky and Ma, but that's no excuse for hurting you.  I'm sorry.  I tried to. . ."  He had to swallow to clear the waver from his voice.  "I'd do anything to take it back, give up . . .you could have anything, my car, my . . . you think anything else matters when you've lost the one thing that matters most to ya?"  And then he clamped his teeth together because one more word and he'd lose it completely.

Hutch sat hunched, as if bowed under the weight of his words, and his voice was so low that Starsky could barely hear it.  "It hurt, Starsk."

"I know."

"More than anything that's ever happened between us.  I could barely stand **your** knowing about what Forest did, but I **trusted** you, and you hung me out to dry."  He was staring at Starsky now, eyes bright with angry intensity.

Anger and hurt.  Starsky knew him too well not to see what was behind his valid fury, and could only press himself deeper into his seat and whisper, "I know."

"I don't even know if I can trust you again."  Hutch seemed to be having trouble getting the words out, too, choking on the last few.

"I don't blame ya."  Oddly enough, the more upset the blond got, the calmer Starsky grew.  This was what he deserved and he was determined to take it all without a fight.

"But . . . I still love you."

He blinked hard, his newfound self-possession crushed by those few short words.  "Me, too," was all the answer he could manage.

Hutch stared at him a long time, stared **into** him, as if seeking the truth of that answer.  Starsky couldn't have hidden his feelings at that point if he'd tried.  Sorrow almost as deep as his love had held reign before Hutch had even gotten there, and witnessing his friend's pain and determination had only intensified both.

Whatever Hutch saw, it finally made him look away as he took a shaky breath, ran a hand through his hair, stared out the window.  And then, with quiet gentleness, said, "I don't want your car, Starsk."

It took him so off-guard, he sputtered a wet laugh.  "What–?"

Hutch rubbed at his face with one hand, and when he looked up at Starsky, his eyes were bright again.  "After . . . what happened, I thought I hated you."  He leaned closer at Starsky's flinch.  "I wanted to.  I didn't think anything could hurt worse than what you said."  A helpless shrug of the shoulders.  "I was wrong.  Trying to shut you out of my life was worse.  When Dobey said you were shot. . ."

"I'm okay," Starsky breathed.

"I know, but . . . I wasn't.  I mean," Hutch burst out with indignant energy, "look at us.  I can't even stand to be in Parker for longer than five minutes, and you look like a scarecrow, Starsky.  This isn't worth staying angry for."

He dumbly shook his head in agreement.

"You've had to swallow a lot from me over the years, too, I know that.  We've both made mistakes."

Starsky nodded.  At that point he probably would have agreed if Hutch had claimed the sun was blue.

"So."  A suddenly hesitant look from his unhesitant maybe-former partner.  "Can we get past this?"

He hadn't forgotten how to smile, after all.  "I think we already are."  The smile didn't last long.  "You sayin' you forgive me then?" he asked, just to make sure.

Hutch had gone still, but very seriously he nodded once.  "I forgive you."

Caught up in the solemnity, Starsky simply said a hushed, "Thank you."

Like some kind of seal on a pact, they sat staring at each other for a long, silent minute.  And then the enormity of what had happened came crashing down on Starsky.  Five weeks of hunger to hear those words and accumulated despair, satisfied just like that.  It was dizzying.  He sprang up.

"We gotta call Dobey."

"We can talk to–"

"And Ma.  She'll understand."

"If you're–"

"You wanna help me get rid of these boxes?"  Starsky was already gathering them, not even sure what to do with himself, with the certainty he would burst if he stayed in one spot.

"Starsky!"

The irate-sounding summons snuffed his joy as quickly as it had welled up, and Starsky stopped with a jerk, already turning back anxiously.

It wasn't a move his leg was ready for, and it promptly gave way, sending him sprawling directly toward the coffee table.

Very firm hands caught his arm and gripped his side, checking his fall.  They steadied him back on his feet, and suddenly he was eye-to-eye with a scowling Hutch.

"For God's sake, Starsky, slow down!  Take it easy or you're gonna kill yourself."

He froze at the provoked voice.  But it wasn't irritation in Hutch's eyes.  For the first time in too many weeks, it was the fond exasperation unique to his partner.  And even as Starsky watched, transfixed, the eyes softened in concern and Hutch's hand tightened on his arm.

"Starsk?  Hey, I'm not mad."

The last layer of fear dissipated, and Starsky doubted he could have loved his friend more than at that moment.  That was the only word for it.  Joy had given way before the intensity of it, and without a word, he pulled the blond close and held on tight.

There was hesitation there – he could still feel it.  Five weeks of pain and anger didn't go away in one night any more than ten years of friendship went away in five weeks.  But just as Starsky was beginning to think he'd moved too fast, Hutch gave a long sigh and reached up to hug him back.

"I guess we've both still got some things to work through."  Hutch's voice held all the weariness of over a month of unhappiness.  "I know it's been hard on you, too."

But they'd get through it.  Starsky wasn't worried, not anymore.  He'd been given his life back – everything else could be worked out.  "Thanks," he breathed again into the blond hair.

A single shake of the head.  "You're worth it, Starsk."

Starsky just clasped tighter, unable to speak.  His partner had said once  every action had an equal reaction – something a scientist called Oreo or Newton or somebody had said.  Well, five weeks of mourning called for one heck of a celebration when it was over.

"Now we've just gotta keep you off your feet for a few days and get some meat back on your bones.  You haven't been living off those peanut-butter-and-jelly burritos the last few weeks, have you?"  Hutch's half-teasing voice in his ear tickled his hair, and his soul, and Starsky couldn't help laughing.

One **heck** of a celebration.

In the end, the celebration ended up being their usual quiet beer and pizza in front of the TV.  Only, even the usual felt extraordinary that evening, and the TV was mostly ignored for the far more interesting company.

There was still a lot to be said, once the most important things were out of the way.  Forgiveness didn't mean forgetting, and the conversation took more than one serious turn.  But one glance at Starsky always quelled Hutch's doubts about the outcome.  The dark eyes hadn't stopped watching him, as if drinking in the sight of him, looking like a man who'd just won the lottery.

He couldn't keep his eyes off Starsky, either.  He'd missed his partner more than he'd realized, or maybe been willing to admit, and was still getting used to having him back.  The joyfulness was as quiet inside him as it was ebullient in Starsky.  He hadn't recognized how deep the pain had cut until it was eased.

But it was with more worry than happiness that he stared at the brunet.  Starsky looked like he'd dropped at least fifteen pounds, to the point where his clothes hung a little loosely.  Part of that was his injury, and Hutch's gaze strayed down sometimes to the bandaged leg and the lingering lines of pain in Starsky's face.  But some of it wasn't.  Some of it was for him, and the thought grieved him.

He hadn't been wrong to be angry, or maybe even to hold a grudge.  But the unsettled matter had cost them both.  He himself had only shed a few pounds, but Hutch still felt a tired wariness inside, even a lingering shadow of resentment, that would take a while to fade.  And despite the peace Starsky seemed to have found, a peace Hutch hadn't quite reached yet, one look at his partner's still-ravaged eyes and body took away any doubts he'd had made the right choice in coming back, in forgiving.  The internal and external damage would necessarily just take time to fix.  But being together already seemed to be helping, and the joy that fairly shone off Starsky had settled into Hutch's heart to work on undoing the darkness there.

Starsky's excitement finally ran down into exhaustion, and he began to sag to one side, in danger of falling over into the pizza.  With a snort, Hutch shoved the box out of harm's way onto the coffee table.

And then Starsky slid closer almost unconsciously, and Hutch unexpectedly found himself pulling back.  He nearly cursed himself, but . . . his partner had always moved on more easily than he.  No doubt Starsky just craved the natural closeness they once had, and as worn as he looked, he probably could have used it.  Changes – acceptance – took longer to seep into Hutch's bones, however.  He'd meant his promise of forgiveness and already felt its calming effect on them both, but to go as far as to act as though nothing had happened, to immediately return to their former openness . . . It was asking too much.

Even half-asleep, even after all they'd been through, Starsky was still tuned to him and stopped where he was, awkwardly settling into his half of the couch as if he hadn't noticed Hutch's reaction at all.  Not a single glance of reproof or murmur of protest.  He probably figured he deserved it.

Hutch cringed.  Forgiveness was more than just words, wasn't it?  And if anyone deserved one in full, it was the man sitting next to him.  It was time to take the plunge, just as Starsky had in his apology.  And finally allowing himself to listen to instincts that had never really died, Hutch reached over and gave his partner's arm an inviting tug.

It seemed to have been the final test for Starsky, too.  The lean body untensed at his touch, turning to curl against Hutch's side.  One deep sigh, and he was asleep.

Hutch almost shook his head, not really surprised at how easy the choice had been or how right it felt.  He just scooted over as far as he could to give Starsky more room and coaxed him to roll over so his injured leg was propped up on the sofa.  Then Hutch stretched to reach the afghan they'd tossed out of the way onto the easy chair earlier, dropping it lightly over the sleeper.  Starsky was already too deeply under to even snore, his face drawn now that the effervescence was gone.  Hutch's mouth set.  He wanted a look at that leg wound when his partner woke up, having a feeling it was a little more serious than the "scratch" Starsky and Dobey had claimed.  The man needed a partner to look after him because, God knew, he didn't do it himself.

And Hutch abruptly found that he wanted that job more fiercely than he could ever remember.

He leaned his head back against the top of the couch with a deep, steadying breath.  So much pain they'd caused each other.  One of the things he'd told Starsky about was the subtle change of tension he'd felt at the station since his partner's ambitious announcement in the bar.  Only Starsky would have thought of taking such a direct approach, Hutch's mouth quirked, but to some extent it had worked.  The rumors would die among those who knew him, and the rest . . . well, they already thought something was wrong with the two of them.  They were probably right.

He didn't want it any other way.

And he still hadn't examined too closely the newfound freedom from the darkest skeleton in his closet.  No more hiding it in shame, living in fear it would come out someday.  He would never have chosen deliverance at that cost, but now that it was there . . . Hutch couldn't quite fathom it yet.  Maybe after his heart was finished soaking in the return of his partner.

Starsky's arm slipped off the couch but he didn't even stir.  Hutch leaned forward to carefully lift it into place again, shaking his head mournfully at how tired the man looked.  Tired and strained.  But Starsky really had found some kind of quiet peace; Hutch had seen it when he'd first arrived.  The brunet had truly been ready to pack up to leave for New York and go on with his life, and leave Hutch to go on with his own.  Hutch couldn't blame him, not after giving him no hope for reconciliation, and was somehow . . . glad Starsky could have gone on if he'd needed to.  But to think he'd come so close to losing what they had for good. . .

That tremendous power to hurt one another had come from an equally tremendous amount of love.  He'd never loved someone that hard, knowing all his faults and seeing the flaws and choosing to love anyway, nor been loved back with the same clear-sightedness and intensity.  It was a gift, most of the time, one he would have been a fool to reject.  They just had to be more careful not to abuse it again.  Hutch hoped sincerely they'd both learned that lesson now.

Starsky would need him there when he woke, and Hutch had no intention of leaving.  Packing away the what-ifs as a settled matter, he curled an arm over Starsky's shoulder and sat back to watch TV and wait for his partner.


End file.
